


Floods

by majoreave



Category: Call of Duty
Genre: M/M, Major Violence, Minor Angst, PTSD, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8098810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majoreave/pseuds/majoreave
Summary: The world is different after the fall of Atlas. Jack Mitchell finds himself public enemy number one with Sentinel, the military organization who brought down Jonathan Irons. Alongside Gideon and Ilona, they find themselves at the forefront of a dark conspiracy, against the legacy Irons left behind and someone new seizing control of Atlas' remaining assets. Irons was right about one thing: it wasn't over.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First Call of Duty fic but listen, I've played this damn game so many times I know everything front to back. Please excuse the lack of words in the first chapter. It gets better as it goes, I promise.

Sometimes when Mitchell couldn’t sleep, he could feel the fingers of his left hand. Sometimes when he sat down to eat, he would reach up with his left hand. Sometimes he forgot it wasn’t there. Sometimes the memory of losing it felt like a dream. Whatever nightmare he was living, it couldn’t have been the real world, could it?

That morning, he forgot anything bad ever happened to the world. Another day in paradise, waking to the heat of summer, sunlight glaring through broken slats covering the window next to his bed. He’d moved his bed twice already after the sun drifted into his eyes, blinding him. Still had trouble closing them, the flash of fire behind eyelids, of Knox’s suffering, mutating facial expressions — calmly waking was rare.

The first time the nightmares came, Mitchell screamed in his sleep. Almost scared Gideon, sitting there in the hospital, keeping Mitchell company. Poor guy didn’t have family; they were the same in a lot of ways.

After the hospital, Mitchell insisted he live on his own. He spent so long at the whims of a psychopath and the military fighting him, there was every right to be alone. Mitchell wanted to be his own person, to prove he could do it. Sure, South Africa wasn’t the best place for that, unfamiliar territory and all, but it was better than America. Better than a country reminding him every day what he almost lost, what he almost caused. The end of the world as they knew it started because a man with a business got greedy. Mitchell didn’t want to be reminded of Will, of Knox, and especially not of Cormack.

Ilona came to take care of him sometimes, dropping off food packages and anything else he might need. Finding work with one arm was nearly impossible.

It came down to Mitchell sitting at home, reading what he could from the newspapers. The most interesting articles came from the ones written in French or Afrikaans. Gideon ignored Mitchell when he’d asked to be taught, assuming the older man knew at least Afrikaans. After getting the silent treatment twice, he stopped asking. Waste of time if he tried otherwise. The day after his second attempt, Ilona brought him a book translating Afrikaans to English.

Life in South Africa became harder as days turned into weeks. Mitchell hadn’t wanted to stay in the hospital. He wanted to be free to find his own way in life. Will had been his biggest influence, and then Will’s father, and then Sentinel. When those were all over, what did he have left? It was a journey Mitchell had to make for himself. A journey that would end in something good or something bad.

Mitchell always assumed it would be the second one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mitchell tries to figure out his place in the new war, Gideon is closed off, and Ilona continues to play mediator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot will thicken soon, I swear. Enjoy this bit of angst and Gideon being a jerk.

“Was there any news?” 

Silence came from the other side of the room. Did Mitchell honestly expect Gideon to do anything other than ignore him? How many times was he going to ask that question? He’d waited a week, almost two, for any sign he would get back into the field. They’d come to Cape Town in South Africa to get away, for Mitchell to recover. They were supposed to survive in a world that both hated and feared any former Atlas employee. Sentinel was no better; they’d all but ostracized anyone who allied themselves with Irons at one point. Weeding out the traitors, that’s what it was called. If Cormack was alive, or Knox, they would have stood up for Mitchell and Gideon. 

But they were dead, and it didn’t matter. 

“Gideon, I deserve an answer.” 

“No,” Gideon snapped, tersely. “You don’t.” 

Ilona had to deal with the silent treatment Gideon and Mitchell gave each other for the rest of the day. 

\------

Two days, seventeen hours — Mitchell counted time when he felt nervous. Gideon had been gone for that long, and Ilona could typically report on the location, the job, and the potential grab at the end. Instead, she was just as worried. Sentinel had been cracking down on pockets of resistance, on those who still wore Exos not issued by them. You wore the badge or you wore cuffs. Mitchell scoffed at the idea. He was missing an arm; how would they arrest him? 

Gideon came back late at night on the third day, brow cut and bleeding, bruises on the neck, the shoulder. He’d been in a fight, he said, with Atlas thugs ransacking a safehouse drop. Equipment they could have used, but someone else got to it first. 

“One already Exo’d-up by the time I got there. Nearly broke my arm, the bastard,” his story went. Mitchell sat in the other room near the door, listening to Ilona soothe the irritated Gideon. 

Mitchell wouldn’t have made the mistake of getting caught. 

\------

Upon Gideon’s recovery, a number of things flitted through Mitchell’s head. He watched the other man search through any supplies they’d been able to recover. South Africa had few equipment caches, namely around Cape Town, and they were stripped bare save a few items of choice before they’d gotten to them. In fact, the only Exo still in their possession was the one Gideon had been wearing after Mitchell ended Irons’ reign of terror. How they were supposed to get by with just one Exo was beyond any of them. 

Except for Gideon, apparently. 

“You’re an idiot if you think going out there is a good idea, _again_ ,” Mitchell ground out. Like Gideon would listen to him. The man was still packing what ammo they had left, slinging the assault rifle over his shoulder, the whir of the Exo telling Mitchell everything he needed. 

“Gideon, I’m serious,” he added, holding out his only arm. Like it would block anything, do any good there. Gideon merely pushed past him. The simple fact Mitchell only had one arm to use for the rest of his life created an automatic response in the younger man. Safety, to protect it, because without it he might as well be dead. 

“You can’t go!” Mitchell’s raised voice spat out the words, laced at the edges of with some kind of poison he had yet to decide a name for. 

Gideon paused, not bothering to turn around as he supplied his answer. “Watch me.” 

It was raining in Cape Town that day, a torrential downpour stopping Mitchell from going after the only one of their ragtag crew of three who still had a plan. 

Several hours later, Mitchell and Ilona sat in silence over two-day old coffee, unable to look at one another through the regret. 

\------

“Two of ‘em showed up wearing Exos. I’m guessing on the sizes here so bear with me.” Gideon hefted the two duffel bags onto the table in front of Ilona and Mitchell, who had gathered immediately to this little pow-wow. “This one,” Gideon said, pointing to the smaller Exo with blistering red for paint. “This is yours, Ilona.” He opened the other bag, revealing a jet black and silver Exo with slightly wider shoulders. “This one is yours, Mitchell, if you can even wear it.” 

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Mitchell straightened up, eyes locked with Gideon’s in their own sort of deathmatch. It was a challenge, wasn’t it? To prove he was capable of fighting, of pushing forward. 

“Just because I’m missing one arm doesn’t mean I’m useless, Gideon,” Mitchell shot back. 

“Yeah mate, it does.” Gideon didn’t bother to look at Mitchell as he said it. 

This complication, this _disgusting_ display of machismo, was getting to Mitchell in more ways than one. Not only had he stopped Jonathan Irons from destroying the world, he’d given up his fucking arm in the process. He’d given _everything_ to stop _anything_ the man did. A tyrant who attacked the world, killed millions of people, just to control everything. Just for _revenge_ . And where did that leave them? Yeah, they’d made the right choice; they’d done the just thing. But now they were nobodies, running from Sentinel, the very people they’d turned to when the going got tough. Their repayment became persona non grata. 

Mitchell’s breath hitched. 

“I get it,” he muttered. “I finally get it.” 

Gideon didn’t look up. 

“You can do this yourself, can’t you? That’s what you want.” Mitchell didn’t let up, hand resting on the table, weight leaning into it. “You think just because you’re some big badass you have everything you need to stop Atlas, even now.” He straightened up again, taking a step back. “You didn’t stop them by yourself, Gideon. You couldn’t.” Around the edge of the table he went, closer to the private military officer turned mercenary. “Not without _our_ help.” Fear spiked, Mitchell’s breath laboring, his chest tightening from the trickle of terror building. God, he knew Gideon could snap his neck in a second if he wanted to. The Exo the other man wore whirred again with slight movement, but Mitchell didn’t stop. 

“And now we’re in hiding, without resources, without _anyone_ to turn to, you think you can do it all.” Mitchell exhaled shakily, narrowing his eyes, lip curling on the right to show teeth. “Well fuck you then. Do it yourself.” 

“Watch it, Mitchell,” Gideon warned. Oh, now he had the gall to say something? Mitchell tightened his hand into a fist, inching closer still. Feet away from the one person present who thought he was worthless. Well, if that was the case.. 

“If you’re able to do all this yourself, you wouldn’t miss Ilona or me if we leave, right?” Mitchell’s eyes flickered to Ilona, who apparently disagreed with his assertion. She didn’t want to go, that much was obvious, and whether it was out of some obligation or comradeship, Mitchell didn’t care. This was about Gideon, and this was about teaching the asshole a lesson. How far would he really get without either of them? 

“Go, then,” Gideon replied, a softer edge to his voice. Something Mitchell had never once heard in the entire time he’d known him. Save that one time he helped him with his gun come to think of it, just after Irons destroyed use of Mitchell’s prosthetic arm. It made him go silent, those simple words, and he swallowed the sizeable lump forming in his throat. 

He hadn’t expected Gideon to readily surrender like that. Did he just agree with Mitchell leaving? Inside, the little voice of reason screamed for Mitchell to stay. He didn’t want to go. The sense of pride wouldn’t let him stay. 

Without another word he turned, a guilty look thrown to Ilona on the way out the door. 

\------

In the middle of the night, Ilona came to talk. Their meeting place wasn’t safe, not with Gideon haunting it, a man driven mad by revenge. How many people could say they’d survived the end of a tyrant? Mitchell’s heart twisted, chest tightening with pain, and he found it easier to talk about anything. Ilona was the one person he could trust in all this, it seemed, since Gideon cared about nothing more than the next mission. 

The sorry excuse for a dining room in Mitchell’s rundown apartment held a single table with three chairs (the third woefully shoved aside, facing a corner, a reminder of the terrible ordeal they still had yet to live through). In silence they sat. Ilona had chosen the remainder of the coffee Mitchell had made that morning (sloppily), and Mitchell himself decided on a beer, fingertips pressing hard to the neck of the bottle. Turns out it was harder to say what he wanted. Harder to speak, harder to breathe through. 

“He does it because he cares, Mitchell,” was the justification Ilona gave him. 

“It doesn’t feel that way.” Mitchell gripped the bottle tighter. 

“I know, and he has a strange way of showing it,” she added. “But he does care. He’s said as much. Not in so many words or those words exactly, we both know how he is.” 

Yeah, always the hardass. Couldn’t show his understanding or care even once in his life. How many people were going to turn against them before Gideon realized he had no other choices? How many times would Mitchell let him get away with it? The process couldn’t have been more complicated. Mitchell sighed, finally able to look up at Ilona. She smiled — that sad smile someone had when they knew bad news was coming — and reached across the table, laying a hand over his. “Give him some time, he’ll come around.” 

It wasn’t as much of a comfort as Mitchell wished. 

“What if he doesn’t? What if I made a mistake?” His doubts became worries, and his worries would only push someone like Gideon away. During their stint in Atlas, friendship often shoved itself to the backburner. The mission, stopping war criminals, became all that mattered. No time to get to know the people you were working with. Occasionally they’d kick back, have a beer, celebrate their service and deeds, but never out of a sense of friendship. They worked together, fought together, sometimes died together. There was no room for making friends and being social when the world threatened to end one day to the next. 

Mitchell sat back in his chair, hand gripped into a fist. His throat tightened, nearly choked him, and he understood what it meant. He finally got it.

“We all make mistakes, Mitchell,” she said, that sad smile returning. “Whether or not you can make up for them, that’s for you to decide.”

She was right.

“Any idea where I should start?”

“No,” she said. “But I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Her smile brightened.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell sticks his nose in everyone's business (whether they realize it or not), and everyone has something to prove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot of fun to write, and Googling everything I didn't know was a blast. There's some moments of gore later in the chapter (ties in with the canon-typical violence), but nothing too jarring.

Within a few weeks Mitchell began to catch on. Ilona and Gideon were meeting more often in secret, away from Mitchell, away from any chance of him overhearing whatever it was they talked over. A plan, he’d heard Ilona say one time when they were leaving. Out of earshot, and assumedly out of Mitchell’s mind. But it was a lie — he listened, and he knew exactly what he needed to plan for.

Some of the technology Atlas gave them for missions they’d kept. Surveillance bugs were part of it. Blowing off the dust from the Exo pad connected to the remote fly, Mitchell hunkered down beneath the window sill of the ramshackle house they’d chosen for war meetings. Still acted like they were at war. Gideon was probably responsible for that; he was the usual suspect for any sort of conflict.

Mitchell adjusted the sensors, tapping the small screen he held against the wood of the wall. Without his other arm he had to make do. The screen nearly fell several times before he found his groove, holding it up with his thumb while simultaneously navigating the menus with his fore- and middle fingers. Eventually, the little fly’s mechanical guts turned with a buzzing sound and it was in the air. Controlling it was possible with one hand — it always had been — and Mitchell watched the screen. His earpiece, put in place ahead of time, picked up and fed the tiniest sounds straight to the controller and right to Mitchell’s hearing.

“ _...you think he knows?”_

“ _I don’t know what to think.”_

Mitchell leaned against the wall, pressing the earbud further in to hear better. Sound wasn’t carrying very well.

“ _Ilona, we can’t tell him anything.”_

“ _I know, Gideon. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”_

They were silent, footsteps shuffling across dusty floorboards. What exactly were they hiding from him? What was this big plan both worried about? Mitchell knew Gideon’s reasons. The man wanted revenge, pure and simple, and he would do anything to get it. But what of Ilona? What stake did she have in all of this? Mitchell swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty.

“ _We can’t focus on that now. We need to regroup.”_

“ _With who, Gideon? Everyone’s dead.”_

“ _Not everyone.”_

Movement again. So, they’d found someone they used to know. A contact on the inside? Was this someone who still worked for Atlas? Whoever it was, and wherever they were, neither Gideon nor Ilona was going to share this bit of detail. Mitchell was a liability in the field; he couldn’t know.

 _“I found him, out near Gaborone. Operating within Atlas for the last year, give or take a few months. Wasn’t sure he’d be with us but..”_ Mitchell could see Gideon’s little head nod to himself perfectly.

They were silent for some time, deliberating most likely. Mitchell tapped the screen against the wall, image flickering for a second, and then dying. Great; just sound. Never could get the damn thing to work once it died. The fly was stationary on a table where he’d landed it, and a slim chance of being discovered followed it.

_“Okay. We go get him.”_

_“That’s what I like to hear.”_

_“But, Gideon, what about Mitchell?”_

Ah, there was the real subject of the hour. All that waiting, all that training, and Mitchell was still benched. Incapable, that’s what Gideon thought of him. No matter how hard he tried to prove his worth, tried to stay on top of training — the missing ammo was because of Mitchell’s secret target practice — it wasn’t enough. It never would be, not for Gideon.

_“We can’t tell him.”_

_“Why not this one time? He’s been asking a lot lately about where you go, what the plan is.”_

_“And what do you tell him?”_

_“I.. Nothing. I tell him nothing.”_

Just the way Gideon wanted it. Mitchell’s teeth clenched, grip on the screen tightening, and he pushed himself to standing, away from view of the window. How many people really got to decide for themselves what kind of future they wanted? Irons had given him the chance to be someone again, to do something great. Why did that dream, that choice have to die with him? If anything, Gideon should have accepted and agreed to training Mitchell further. So what if he was missing one arm? So what if he could potentially be a liability? The only way to find out was go into the field and prove it. Prove Gideon wrong, or prove him right.

Mitchell was sure he didn’t want Gideon of all people to be right. A man with a grudge and hard-on for revenge never, no matter how small, let things go.

\---

Traveling from one African country to another proved difficult without resources and under the assumption no one he knew could know he was following them. Going after them could end in a lot of regret or death, which by itself was not the worst thing that could happen in that scenario. Being yelled at, turned away from, or any number of backstabbing things Mitchell could think of was way worse coming from a man like Gideon. Ilona would be understanding. Gideon? Not so much. Dealing with the aftermath would be the hardest thing Mitchell would ever have to do in his life. Bar getting to where he was going first.

Once Ilona and Gideon left their secret meeting place, Mitchell kept an eye out for any information left behind. A map, directions, clues — anything to break the silence of what this so-called top secret mission was. If they were looking for someone they knew personally from Atlas, it could be any number of loyal people. Gideon had plenty of friends, or at least resources whom he trusted. If Ilona trusted Gideon, on the other hand, was she going to keep silent about where they were going?

Neither one of them spoke to Mitchell the entire time they prepared to leave. The angry, betrayed look was genuine, and Mitchell knew it. Ilona refused to look at him directly, and Gideon naturally ignored him. But oh, Mitchell would show both of them very soon how serious and capable he was.

The black and silver Exo had some modifications while Mitchell played lookout for this elusive information. Wherever Ilona and Gideon were headed, Mitchell would not be far behind. He’d removed the left arm of the Exo, jury rigging the hydraulics to the boosters at the back, feeding in extra power for jumps, glides, and versatility of movement to the left and right. The shoulder on the left side equally found better use directly connected to the armored vest Mitchell outfitted with a sealed up sleeve, hiding the stump of his left arm from complete view. Useless and best to hide it.

Probably the most difficult aspect of Mitchell’s fix for the Exo came from the control screen. With no left arm, he couldn’t access information, diagnostics, and programming. It too was moved. To the left front of his chest, with Mitchell memorizing exactly where on the screen he needed to press to access everything. In secret he also practiced getting the Exo to obey what he wanted.

To memory, everything was committed.

\---

Just outside Gaborone in Botswana, Ilona and Gideon ditched their armored truck. What they didn’t realize is, wedged between several mechanical parts on the undercarriage, was Mitchell. On and off he’d switch the cloak, usually when government officials of some menace demanded to search the vehicle. None the wiser, the two in the cab of the truck got to their destination without a hitch, save those few stops.

Mitchell dropped to the dirt when their footsteps faded, shimmying out from under the vehicle and rolling immediately into the tall grass off the side of the road.

They’d chosen the middle of nowhere to stop, away from the glowing lights of Gaborone, but near enough they could take refuge in the city if anything went sideways. Smart of them, all things considered. Mitchell had assumed Gideon would go in, guns blazing, and take what he wanted. Always seemed the forceful type.

With a smirk Mitchell continued to watch them, waiting for his moment to leave the grass and move closer. By the time Ilona and Gideon donned their Exos, lights appeared further down the road, forcing the two into cover on the opposite side of the road.

Mitchell switched on the cloak for good measure and clicked on the one-way radio attached to his Exo. He knew it was a risk, one of the other two possibly picking up the fuzzy click of someone eavesdropping, but they didn’t make any sign they figured it out. Yeah, he was still good at the covert operations Sentinel often sent him on. Months of fighting in the shadows let him become the stalker of any enemy. Like a predator waiting in the bushes.

Voices carried down the road, figures coming out of the darkness to search the truck. Abandoned on the side of the road, it must have looked suspicious. Flashlights flickered back and forth, hushed voices ordering several others into the grasses to search. Away from Mitchell, thankfully, but close enough he could get a look at who they were.

Black uniforms with the unmistakable red and white ‘A’ of Atlas on their sleeves. Their Exos were modified, bulkier, better-armored. The only explanation was innovation. They’d known Atlas had continued to research since Irons’ death, but to what extent? Gideon underestimated these assholes.

Mitchell drew out the silenced pistol from its holster at his lower back, aiming through the grass to the first figure closest to him. A singular round found its target with nothing more than a whistling chime. He didn’t give himself away.

“Hey, over here!” One of them yelled, and Mitchell backed further into the grass. Had they found Ilona and Gideon?

A shout with the edge of high-pitch tone cut through the night and Mitchell knew it was Ilona.

He found her struggling in the grass with two of the bastards, one using what had to be a stronger Exo to keep her down effortlessly. The other drew out a knife, brandishing it in her face. It took Mitchell less than a second to land near the knife-wielder after a boost, his own knife in the throat. The other let go of Ilona in shock as Mitchell dropped the clock, appearing in a flash. Enough time to slide the knife beneath the man’s jaw, up through the throat, into the brain stem. Dead before he hit the ground.

“Mitchell!” Ilona gasped, out of breath.

“Yeah,” he exhaled back.

“You shouldn’t be here! How did you find us?”

He grinned, shrugging haphazardly. “I didn’t have to.” With a jerk of his head back towards the truck, he smirked. “By the way, the underside of those trucks? Perfect place to hide, did you know that?”

“You bastard,” came from the dark behind them.

Mitchell swallowed the hard, choking lump in his throat.

“Do you want to get all of us killed?” Gideon growled out, hand gripping hard on Mitchell’s shoulder, jerking him around.

“I didn’t, did I? In fact, if it wasn’t for me, they would have made mincemeat out of Ilona!”

“Oh, that right?” Gideon looked mad, eyes dark with whatever thoughts raced behind them. Mitchell saw this look, the same look of uncontrollable, bubbling rage when he’d revealed the plan to storm Irons’ fortress. They’d done it, stopped the rockets, but at what cost?

Sweat dripped down Mitchell’s neck in anticipation, the heat coupled with the anger radiating from Gideon smothering. Was there honestly anything he could say to make things better? No, he was waiting for Gideon to make the next move. Mitchell knew he did the right thing, made the right choices, and he wouldn’t take them back for anything. No hindsight, no regrets.

Bullets popped into the dirt at their feet, throwing up sand and grass. High-caliber rounds, most likely from high-powered rifles. They needed to find somewhere to hide, to hunker down and weather the storm coming their way. Atlas wasn’t messing around.

Ilona was first to move, parting the grass moments before Gideon and Mitchell bolted through it after her. Wherever they were going to hide, they needed to make sure it was secure. No buildings, no innocent bystanders — just them and the Atlas goons following them.

Quickly they kept up pace, but the raging of Exos behind them told them Atlas was upping their game. How long could they keep this up? Mitchell couldn’t see the status of his battery, but he knew the ominous beep would come sooner rather than later. Shouldn’t have relied on his cloak that heavily, but what was a guy to do? Sweat continued to build at the heat and resistance. Despite low humidity and temperatures, adrenaline sure could raise a body temperature to unimaginable levels.

Mitchell’s heart raced fast enough to make him light-headed, blood rushing through every extremity at the bullets continually pounding the dirt around them.

A flash of light caught them off guard, throwing up dirt. No shielding for the eyes left all three blinded, stumbling backwards. Mitchell reached out and felt a hand grab his, tightening for support. Ilona’s or Gideon’s? The daze continued, a whistling and unbearable whine in his ears. Flashbang.

Muffled noise to his right.

There it was again.

The hand tugged hard, encouraging, wishing. Mitchell groaned, rolling his eyes to work out the spots, and everything came back into focus.

“Mitchell!” Gideon called his name and gripped his hand tighter. Mitchell’s stomach turned not from fear but something else. “Move!”

His feet started without his say-so, and they were heading through the grass again. Gideon had abandoned his hold — Mitchell felt the emptiness crushing as the fear moments before had been — and gripped his own gun. With only his pistol, Mitchell relied heavily on switching to his cloak, disappearing from sight. If these bastards were so well-prepared, they’d have infrared. Ilona was nowhere in sight.

“Gideon, where’d she go?” Mitchell called out to the man just yards ahead of him. How’d he go that far?

It made both of them stop, Mitchell mere inches shy of Gideon.

“I don’t know,” he replied, out of breath. Shit.

“Gideon, you hear that?” Mitchell asked, his voice low, wavering.

“What?"

“Exactly,” Mitchell breathed out.

Everything was silent, still. No Ilona, no Atlas, no enemies. If they were surrounded, these guys were good. Better training, better Exos, better everything. And they had Gideon, blinded by vengeance and anger, and a cripple with only one arm. What kind of fight were they getting into, and the most important question became would they survive?

Rustling to the left had them raising their guns, aimed steadily. Gideon’s trembled for a second as the grass parted and he stepped forward to meet whoever their attacker was.

“Holy shit, Gideon?”

“Joker!”

Mitchell stood up straighter, eyes widening at the sight of the blond in his stupid goggles and headset.

“You bastard, thought you were dead,” Gideon chuckled. Oh, so he was kinder to the people who didn’t follow them? Mitchell gripped his gun tightly, narrowing his eyes.

“Gideon,” he stated, glaring menacingly at Joker. “He’s with Atlas. Look.” Mitchell motioned to the arm-patch, to the Exo with the clearly emblazoned insignia. It made Gideon go rigid.

“Yeah, I’m still with them. Only because they have intel I need to get my job done.” Joker’s explanation made little sense to Mitchell, albeit with some own disbelief at himself. Were they supposed to trust a guy who stayed with Atlas — assumedly — when they three had turned to Sentinel? Was he the inside made Gideon got help from, though, when it mattered most? Intel had always been good when it came to Joker.

“Whatever the reason,” Gideon said, “we need to make sure Ilona’s alright.”

“Wait, she’s here?” Joker asked. He looked.. frightened, alert. Mitchell knew something was going on, something Joker wasn’t telling them, but he remained silent. Surprising, considering Gideon’s ploy to perhaps berate him later. No, this was more important. The impersonal nature he seemed to be getting, that cold shoulder, it only made Mitchell more determined to get to the bottom of Gideon’s crap.

“I’ll go look for her,” he said. Gideon turned directly to him, reaching a hand out to stop him.

“I think it’s best if I do it, and you head back to the truck,” was the order.

Mitchell ground back his response. “Or what, Gideon? You’re not in charge anymore, as much as you like to think you are.”

Both went silent, metaphorical hackles raised, and Gideon’s gun moved a few inches up. Was he going to point it at him? Mitchell raised his own gun, this time all the way, sights directly at Gideon’s chest. He wouldn’t aim for the head, not unless given the motivation to.

“Whoa, guys,” Joker blurted out, stepping between Mitchell’s gun and Gideon. “Don’t you think we should worry about the guys trying to kill you now, and worry about killing each other later?”

The small sound Gideon let out sounded like a scoff. Maybe he didn’t think Mitchell could take him.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “Let’s move.”

Mitchell didn’t like the order, didn’t like the venom it was directed towards him with, and sure as hell didn’t like the flares firing up behind them into the sky.

For almost a quarter of a mile, flashes of bright orange light illuminated everything. Shapes moved around them, the glint of a rifle here and there. Mitchell saw the muzzle flash, having only a split second to react, grabbing Gideon’s Exo from the front. With all the strength he could muster and his entire body weight, Mitchell threw himself and Gideon to the ground. Bullets whizzed overhead as Mitchell shielded Gideon with his own body, eyes screwed shut from fear.

Flashes of light, fire behind closed eyelids. Knox’s face flickered across his vision, swirling with red and green, eyes bloodshot, rolling back into his head. Mitchell couldn’t breathe, choked. No, it was Manticore again.

_“Mitchell..”_

Knox’s hands were tight around his throat, thumbs pushing in, crushing his windpipe. Mitchell tried to scream, struggled, kicked. His only hand gripped hard around Knox’s wrist but couldn’t pull him free.

_“MITCHELL.”_

Louder Knox screamed at him, teeth black, eyes pulsing red, bulging. Mitchell screamed in his head, couldn’t breathe.

_Stop. Stop. STOP._

“Mitchell!”

Pain flared across Mitchell’s face, head jerking to the right. He coughed, choking through the smoke billowing around them, blanketing the area.

“You’re alright, come on,” Gideon encouraged. The words were.. gentler, softer. He slung Mitchell’s arm over his shoulders, helping him stand. “I’ve got ya, mate.”

Mitchell coughed again, breath stuttering as he sucked in lungfuls.

“Wh..at..”

“Flares came down into the grass. Lit everything on fire,” Gideon explained. “Snipers surrounded us, nearly took us out.” He went silent, and Mitchell remembered what happened.

He’d saved Gideon’s life, tackled him to the ground at the right moment. Out of harm’s way, out of the bullet’s path. If it wasn’t for Mitchell, there’d be nothing left of Gideon’s head. But God, why did it feel like he’d regret it anyway? No, was that really regret? Elation? Mitchell’s already difficult breath hitched, heart skipping a beat.

“Ilona and Joker went back to the truck.” Gideon continued speaking as he walked, half-dragging Mitchell along with him. So hard to focus. “There they are.”

The truck slid to a halt in the loose dirt and Gideon all but shoved Mitchell into the back, climbing up after. A few raps of his fist against the metal plate separating them from the front and they started moving.

In the pure black surrounding him, through the flashes of Knox’s swollen, grossly bloated face, there were flashes of Gideon. Above him, hand pressed against Mitchell’s forehead. Did he murmur Gideon’s name, still barely breathing?

“It’s alright mate, I’ve got you.”

Suffocating darkness swallowed Mitchell again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell thought the hardest thing he'd have to deal with in his new life was action, combat, and adrenaline.

Three days. 

Couldn’t wake for three days. 

Through the haze, Mitchell remembered the drugs, the needle they used to attach the IV. Someone came to see him, someone who brought medicine and was willing to risk themselves. He remembered Joker’s voice, telling Gideon and Ilona everything they needed to know about Atlas’ current situation. Mitchell didn’t remember the finer points, but it was something urgent. 

He faded out again for another day. Maybe two? 

Ilona stood over him for second she was awake at one point. What seemed like a blink later, Gideon was there. Someone was checking on him, watching him. 

“How long?” 

A deeper voice, slightly accented. Gideon? Mitchell tried to open his eyes, shifting onto his left side. The little bit of his arm left stopped him from completely turning. Couldn’t hear what they were saying. 

He passed out again seconds later. 

 

\--- 

 

“How are you feeling?” Ilona asked, steadily approaching Mitchell from the door where she’d been standing patiently. 

Mitchell sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing the space between his shoulder and neck. Soreness crafted its way carefully done his right side, under his arm and along his ribs. Whatever happened to him in the midst of that fight, he couldn’t recall. Ilona was silent, giving him a chance to recuperate. So many questions he wanted to ask, too many, and he felt his body aching all over. 

The first question he asked was, “How long was I out?” 

She took her time answering. Was it guilt? Regret? Whatever it was, she became visibly disturbed, her eyes darting back and forth but never steadily aimed at Mitchell. What happened? 

“A week, give or take a day,” she finally answered. She still didn’t look at him. “You drifted in and out for a while. The doctor said it was normal with the medicine they gave you.” 

Doctor? “Where am I?” 

“Back home, in Cape Town.” 

_Not much of a home_ , he thought. Cape Town felt more like a prison. The world was crumbling beneath their fingers, drastically changed thanks to Atlas and Irons. Sentinel became the global police force, he remembered reading, and they were cracking down on “terrorists” hard. Former Atlas employees who hadn’t allied themselves with Sentinel counted in that category. Not like they’d accept a cripple and two former PMCs for Atlas anyway. Catch-22, that one. 

“Gideon?” Mitchell couldn’t help the query, throwing it out there and regretting not keeping his mouth shut. 

“He’s here,” she replied, carefully. “Somewhere.” Typical. 

“Any idea where to start?” 

She shook her head, breathing a sigh. “No, Mitchell. Wherever he is, wherever he goes, no one can figure it out. Not even Joker.” 

“Wait, he’s here?” Mitchell pushed himself to standing, the effort sparking pain along his lower back and up his spine. He gasped, leaning against the edge of the bed, knuckles white after gripping so hard. Wasn’t even aware he’d started to breathe heavily. 

“Mitchell, you need to calm down.” Ilona was by his side. How did she get there? Her hand laid on the top of his, the other at his shoulder. Dangerously close to the one thing he was ashamed of in his life. Will’s death? Not his fault in the end. Irons’ defeat? Oh, totally responsible for that and no amount of regret or guilt to speak of. Being useless, though, was the one thing he couldn’t bear. What part of him was so wrong even Gideon found him useless? When they were escaping Atlas he wasn’t so useless. A soldier of convenience? 

He’d saved Gideon’s life and the man better not have fucking forgot that. 

“Why is he here?” Mitchell repeated, grinding the words through clenched teeth. 

Ilona didn’t want to answer. Through the haze and half-lidded glare he gave her, he could see it. Whatever happened, whatever was _going_ to happen, it wasn’t good. If Joker knew their base of operations, knew any details about their living situation, the stockpile of weapons they (might) have, anything.. Their way of life was over. 

He had to sit down, back on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. In, out. One, two. Whatever happened in the field to him would happen again. Was he poisoned? Hurt? Ilona was still there, hand on his shoulder, comforting him. He didn’t want it, not from her. Mitchell wanted to talk to Gideon, get the story right from the horse’s mouth. That asshole had been there when Mitchell blacked out. Was he shot? Anything really, truly harmed? 

As if on command, the Devil himself stood in the doorway. Mitchell didn’t have to look up to know the energy seeping its way into the room. Someone was angry — _still angry?_ — and ready to rage the storm of the century. 

No words were exchanged at first, just uncomfortable, awkward silence. The kind of awkward silence what comes before a berating like the world had never seen. Mitchell didn’t feel he deserved, wasn’t going to stand for it. 

“Give us a minute?” Gideon must have addressed Ilona, because her hesitating footsteps paced their way out the door, it closing behind her with a near inaudible click. 

Again, they remained in silence. If Gideon expected Mitchell to talk first, he was about to be mistaken. What part of saving his ass did the man not understand? 

“I should thank you for helping me, Mitchell,” Gideon started. Well, look at that. Apparently it was possible to be apologetic, or grateful, or whatever that qualified as for Gideon. “But I won’t.” 

Oh, spoke too soon. 

“I shouldn’t have to, because you shouldn’t have been there.” It wasn’t like Mitchell had a choice. Ilona would be dead, Gideon would be dead.. Maybe both. Mitchell felt his heart catch in his throat. How many times was he going to prove he could do it? “I won’t deny it was impressive, though. You’ve really come a long way since I first trained you at Atlas,” the man continued. A chair’s legs scraped against the wooden floorboards, indicating Gideon was getting comfortable. So, they were in the for the long haul, eh? 

“But it was reckless, stupid, and terrifying.” 

Wait. 

_What?_

“If you ever do something like that again, I’ll kill you myself,” he closed. 

Mitchell finally looked up. Finally wanted to see whatever emotion, if any, graced the PMC’s face. Gideon was a soldier, always had been as far as Mitchell could tell, and would never stop being it. What made him so damn angry all the time? What sore spot did Irons hit that it ruined whatever progress they’d made as people? What ruined Gideon? 

The tightness in his throat damn near choked him. Mitchell took a moment to think, to _breathe_ , and braved his response. 

“I wasn’t scared, Gideon. What’s there to be afraid of?” It was a challenge, daring Gideon to talk. _Interrupt me_ , it said, _see what I do then._ But Gideon didn’t, and Mitchell was allowed to continue. 

“Nothing. There’s nothing to be afraid of when you have _nothing_ . When you wake up every day wondering if you should keep trying. When you wake up every day to the look of guilt on a friend’s face, or someone you once trusted _telling you_ how useless you are.” Mitchell clenched his hand into a fist, not daring to look away. “You aren’t useless, Gideon. You have a lot more to offer than I do.” His breath hitched in his chest, the anger rising in his chest, bristling along his shoulders and up his neck. Again he felt light-headed, but he had to continue. He had to say his peace before Gideon didn’t give him a chance to. “Whatever you think you know about me, you don’t. I wasn’t terrified, Gideon. I felt _alive_ .” 

Silence blanketed them again, suffocating the air. Mitchell kept his grip, Gideon kept his mouth shut. And then, after several minutes of that demanding tension, Gideon moved. He stood — slowly — and returned the chair to where it came from. Not another word and he turned, heading for the door. Yet just when he was about to walk out, just when he was about to close it without so much as an utterance, he did speak. He didn’t look at Mitchell. 

“I was terrified for you, Mitchell,” he said, softly. A tone Mitchell couldn’t ever remember sounding so _sad_ . 

The door clicked shut behind Gideon. 

 

\--- 

 

They didn’t let him leave for a few days after that. Gideon didn’t come to visit anymore, didn’t say anything to Ilona. Nobody told him anything anymore, and frankly, Mitchell didn’t care. He was done with being treated like he was weak, defenseless. He was done being treated like he couldn’t take care of himself. When they finally pulled the IV from his arm, he took his things and left. 

Of course, the only place he had left to return to was the makeshift home they’d set up for him. Nothing more than a table, three chairs, and a bed. Barely enough clothes to fit a duffel bag, and only a few weapons hidden in the bathroom and bedroom. Hell, Mitchell had more invested in the clothes on his back than the belongings at his place. 

He loaded the little he did have into the truck Ilona brought him, and drove off, leaving her in the dust. 

But he didn’t go very far. 

No, without the ability to read and understand French or Afrikaans effectively, he stopped at the nearest place of business that appeared to support English-speaking tourists. A bar, naturally, but a sign of some miracle for sure. Didn’t help the patrons all looked native, comfortable with where they were. You could tell the exotic-loving tourists apart from the locals based on posture and clothing. Many tourists wore those damn stupid cargo shorts and vacation shirts. 

Mitchell liked to think he fit in by sheer fact of his heavy duty boots and jacket alone, even with one sleeve all pinned up on the left side. 

Two beers later, he was starting to feel like he didn’t want to leave. What choice did he have, though? Leave and be on his own in a strange country with no support network of any kind, or live in the clutches of people (not even friends, really) who thought he wasn’t worth the time of day? What kind of life was that? 

“You should be more careful where you drink,” the husky, obviously accented voice behind him stated. Mitchell started — just barely — but it was enough for Gideon to sit next to him, a self-absorbed invitation. “Especially this far out.” 

“Go away,” Mitchell growled. 

“Wait now, hear me out,” the other man said, raising a hand. “This is important, and while I didn’t want to come here, Ilona said it would be good for the both of us.” 

“The both of us? _Us_ ? What fucking _us_ is there, Gideon?” Mitchell snapped, turning on his stool, leaning heavily against the bar to stop himself from doing something stupid. He wanted to grab the empty beer bottle on the counter, break it, shove the fucking glass into Gideon’s chest, shoulder, whatever wasn’t lethal. Wanted to twist and _twist_ until Gideon knew his pain. Mitchell wanted, for a split second, to cripple Gideon so he’d know what it felt like. 

But part of Mitchell was regretful of the thought, and it was the only thing what made him turn away in false defeat. 

“There’s always been an us, Mitchell. Always.” Gideon went quiet, probably mulling over how he was going to lecture Mitchell again on the benefits and positives of a team. You were either part of the team, for the good of the unit, or not at all. “You and me, we’ve more in common than people think.” 

“Yeah, right,” Mitchell scoffed. 

“I’m serious,” Gideon continued. “Even if you don’t believe it, you’d be nowhere without me.” 

Oh, what a great admission. Point the finger at Mitchell again, see what good that would do. There was already enough resentment for Mitchell to get the fuck away. Did Gideon think this was going to make it better? 

“But I wouldn’t be here without you, and I know that now.” Gideon’s tone softened — again — just barely enough for Mitchell to notice it. But it was the hand that found its way to his, covering it, that had Mitchell’s breath uneven for another reason. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Out of all the people in the world, Gideon was the last Mitchell would have thought could be interested in anyone other than himself. The odds of the man being involved with anything other than war and bloodshed seemed so cosmically improbable it was practically _impossible_ . Mitchell was silent, staring at the bar top, trying not to dart his eyes to the hand over his. He could feel Gideon’s warmth, the gentle pulse of blood, of _life_ . He felt sick. 

No, sick wasn’t it. He felt nauseous, nervous, and afraid. 

Afraid that maybe Gideon had finally seen him for who he really was, could really learn to appreciate him in a way that was more than just another soldier. Just some stupid rookie on a team far outclassing him in anything he’d ever hope to do. Against Ilona, against Joker, and _definitely_ against Gideon, Mitchell was nobody. 

He resisted the urge to draw his hand away. 

He _wanted_ to stay there, in that moment, for as long as was possible before he left all of it behind. 

Could he still do that? 

“Mitchell, I want you to listen to me,” Gideon continued, finally after so long in that stretch of silence. Hopefully no one was listening, or watching them. Africa was never a tolerant place for any kind of sexual deviancy. What was South Africa like? 

“I want you to understand the kind of person I am, and what’s important to me.” His words were off, felt different to Mitchell. Was this Gideon finally opening up? Did Ilona convince him to do this, or was this the only way the man saw fit to make Mitchell stay? 

It really depended on what he said. 

Mitchell let out the breath which constantly hitched in his chest, stuttering and hard to control. He felt light-headed, same as he had in the field during the firefight. This was _way_ worse than any bulletstorm he’d ever live through. Mitchell had never been good at expressing his feelings, to himself or others. And to Gideon? That was practically suicide. 

“A long time ago, when I was much younger, everything was taken from me. Nothing I miss now, I don’t think I ever have, but something all the same,” Gideon started. He tapped his other hand against the bar, calling the bartender for a drink. Probably came around too often to be forgotten. 

“When I was fifteen, I was picked up by a mercenary group rolling through Nigeria into Mali. My unit was wiped out by enemy insurgents, with only myself able to escape. I wandered for days through the swamps, searching for any civilization to help me.” 

His drink arrived. Mitchell said nothing, keeping everything to himself on the sheer fact he was still shocked. Was he dreaming? Was this purgatory? Limbo? The thick lump in his throat was hard to swallow. 

“This mercenary group, they gave me a purpose. They trained me better, more effectively than the unit I was with.” Gideon took a drink of his beer and Mitchell chose the wrong moment to look up at him. He watched the way Gideon’s throat moved with that swallow and felt queasy again. This was definitely something else, something beyond his reach. The spike of grief pitted itself in his gut, rooted down hard, and he looked away again. 

“Over time I came to realize the bad things having happened in my life, they were in the past. My future was brighter than before. This new group of people, they weren’t out to hurt me. They were out to make things better for me, for others like me. Child soldiers trapped on the front lines in a war no one could see, and no one could win.” 

During this pause, Mitchell had a moment to think. He figured it was Gideon revealing something critical about his past that would impact the now, the future. Whatever it was, he wasn’t good at delivering it. Mitchell was terrified of what this talk was. Did Gideon expect him to stay? The nervousness continued, eating at his innards, and Mitchell finally broke the silence. Say it now or never. 

“Why are you telling me this?” He whispered. 

Gideon took his time, drinking more of his beer. Thoughtfully, Mitchell noticed in his glances over. 

“Because,” he finally said. “You’re the last good thing in this world — in my life — I want to hurt. And I’ve hurt so many people it’s impossible for me to regret. My entire life I denied the things that hurt me, but I won’t let you do that to yourself.” 

So that was it. Gideon didn’t want to hurt him. Mitchell felt the fog lift, the realization of what Gideon was trying to squeeze out in as few direct words as possible hit him in the face. There was _care_ here, but not just care between comrades, or between _friends_ , even. No, this was something more, and they were being foolish about it. But Mitchell wanted it to be real, so desperately. He didn’t want it to be a dream like it had been before, leaving him afraid and feeling more alone than ever. 

Now he felt helpless to do or say anything that would matter. 

“I don’t expect you to understand, but Mitchell, you do have something to keep you here,” Gideon finished. He pushed the empty bottle away from him, leaving a few notes on the bar and standing after. “Whatever you decide, it really is up to you, mate.” 

Whatever he decided? Mitchell turned in his seat, watching Gideon leave just as quickly as he’d arrived, and wondered exactly what he was supposed to settle on. If there was something to keep him there, why couldn’t Gideon admit it? More importantly, why bring it up now, and never before? There were too many questions, too many conflicting answers, and Mitchell didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know the direction, the desires for things he wanted to say or do. 

He knew the twisting of his stomach, the tightening in his throat and the guilt building steadily, rising with the bile. 

Mitchell knew what he set out that day to do would be the biggest mistake of his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I'm hoping it sounded alright. Figuring out how Gideon works, how he talks, that's the biggest task of my fanfic writing life, lmao. xD


End file.
